The famous black bomber jacket

It’s getting cold enough for heavy jackets especially when I go to the gym early in the morning. And I have the perfect one – Paul’s black bomber. I've written about it, I have vivid memories of Paul wearing it, and since he died I’ve worn it many times. But, I’ve never shown it off until now. I’m happy to say it still looks fresh and new – no major holes, no fading. I guess it likes hanging in my office closet, transformed from the closet Paul once used. Hopefully, it will stay in this condition for many years to come.

 How about that orange lining?

Black Bomber

Swaddled in this

black bomber jacket all weekend,

I am safe from the Big Sur chill.

It’s too large for me.

And that’s okay. It was Paul’s.

I bought it for him

years ago at American et Cie on La Brea

before he went crazy

and decided to leave us

way before his time.

I like how it snuggles me,

like he’s in there too giving me a hug.

It’s the only piece

of his clothing I have left.

I’ve given away the rest:

his favorite plaid shirts

that smelled of sweat and smoke,

the torn jeans he salvaged

from second-hand stores,

his worn brown Doc Marten oxfords

that took him miles on his manic escapades,

and the tan suede jacket

he had me repair over and over

because he couldn’t let it go.

Like this jacket –

I’ll never let it go.

It has stains I can’t remove

and threads unraveling,

My son is gone.

But, this jacket –

try and take it from me.

Just try.

2002. One of the poems in Leaving the Hall Light On: A Mother’s Memoir of Living with Her Son’s Bipolar Disorder and Surviving His Suicide (Lucky Press LLL, 2011)